


blood on the saddle

by Idonquixote



Category: Xī yóu jì | Journey to the West - Wú Cheng'en
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, POV Wujing, Sha Wujing is the hero and mvp of this story, Team as Family, the Gen prototype of From Here the Rainfalls, what could have been (instead of that slowburn)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-06-30 01:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15741498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idonquixote/pseuds/Idonquixote
Summary: Pilgrim falls, and the river runs red.(Also known as the gen. prototype that was later developed into "From Here the Rain Falls")





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand at a different kind of story (and hopefully style!). It's been a while since I wrote for non-JTTW17 pilgrims. Like the summary said, I actually had this concept before From Here the Rain Falls came along, so there are some elements that are similar here (and those of you who've read Rain can probably tell what!). But I don't like repeating myself, so I did my best to make things different here. It's also been condensed into a two-shot, with the original plan as a 6-8 chapter story. 
> 
> That said, these pilgrims aren't based on any particular adaptation. They're closer to a mixture of the book and how I personally see them.

“You and Master have something in common, you know,” Bajie once tells him, words muffled by layers of cloak and cloth. The pig snout sits under fabric, and only tusks poke out,  stained with rain and desert sand.

And weighed down by pails of water heaped across his back, held together by only a beam from end to end, Wujing asks, “What might that be, second brother?”

Bajie looks him in the eye,  a punchline on his tongue. And though Wujing’s a good few heads taller and at least one body bulkier, he bows his head anyway.

“Nobody can tell if you two are kind or dumb,” Bajie says with a laugh.

Wujing rolls his eyes, but bows again. “Thank you for the insight, second brother.”

“And see?” the pig says, “so serious too. I was just trying to get a laugh from you.”

“Master’s not dumb,” is all Wujing says, nine skulls jingling around his neck, blue scalp violet under the cloudless sun, itself as red as the friar’s own hair.

Bajie prepares to speak when something pops behind his ear. The pig yelps, and behind him, the first disciple laughs. Perched on Bajie’s shoulders, Wukong sucks in his sallow cheeks and makes that pop-click sound again, for no reason other than the fact he _can_.

“Monkey!” Bajie cries, “that hurt!”

And Wukong cackles, tears bubbling at the corner of each eye, right above the layer of devil pink masked across his lids. When he’s done, the monkey grins, toothy sharp, and says, “That was funny! Old Sha, don’t you agree?”

Wujing can’t help a small chuckle, but he hides it and bows. “It was very creative, eldest brother.”

“Ah, ah, what a bore you two are,” Wukong says, arms now wrapped around the second disciple’s head. He twists a leg and bites on the end of one shoe. The boot comes off, and his foot free, the monkey lifts his toes- almost fingers- and scratches the crown of his golden head, pointed ears twitching.

“Master,” Bajie calls, “eldest brother’s bullying me!”

Some feet ahead in that forest trail, the Tang priest stops his horse. Sanzang turns his tender face- though the disciples have learned by now the monk’s temper is anything but- flags shifting with, and says, “Wukong! That’s enough!”

Boot still between his teeth, the monkey retorts, “What? Yell at me and not the idiot?”

“Wukong , get back here! It’s almost nightfall and I don’t have time for your aping around!”

Then, angrier, the priest says, “If we need to find lodging, we must do it now. You should know by now how hard it is with your mugs being as ugly as they are!”

Wukong tosses the boot back onto his foot, and with a swish of tail, slides off Bajie’s groaning head. He lands on all fours, climbs forward, tiger kilt dragging, and laughs. “That’s true! We’re quite homely to these humans.”

“I really ought to make you all wear masks,” Sanzang huffs.

Wukong takes the white horse’s reins, and stroking that fair mane, he says, almost purs, “That’s not fair, Master. Anyone’s ugly compared to you.”

“You wicked ape,” the Master says, resigned, although there isn’t much anger there.

“That, I am!” the monkey chirps.

Bajie adjusts his scarves, ruffled by where Wukong had touched, and walks on. Wujing follows, deferring behind, and listens to the water slosh. The sun’s eaten half the sky by then, an orb of fiery red as cranes fly past. The monk and monkey bicker ahead, their horse silent, and all as it is. And thus, another day west should have passed.

* * *

But it doesn’t.

* * *

The old woman comes to them at sunset, hobbling on frail feet, her withered face hidden under a burlap cloak. They’ve set up camp by then, and Wujing’s too busy starting a fire to see her come.

“Venerable elder,” she rasps, too weak to cry, “help me.”

The third disciple lifts his head, in time to see the woman fall on her knees, one gnarled hand clenched around the Master’s sleeve. The shock passes across Sanzang’s face first, then that look of pity they all know too well. He holds her up, and says, “Bodhisattva, where did you come from?”

“My village,” she gasps, “is just over those woods.”

“Here,” Bajie says, scrambling to the monk’s side, a bowl of water in his hands, “drink this!”

“Thank- thank you,” she says.

Wujing leaves his spot and approaches, heart softened at the sight of a helpless elder. He never could withstand those in need. Maybe, he sometimes thinks, because he’s never quite forgiven himself. Why else then, would he still wear that string of skulls.

“Master,” he says, “the fire’s ready. Let’s bring her over-”

Then the woman gasps, a rush of frightened air let out, and falls back into the Tang priest’s arms. Trembling, she points at Wujing and says, “De- demon.” And only then, she sees Bajie’s face. Paling, she twists, only for Sanzang to keep her held.

“It’s alright!” the monk says, “these are my disciples! Their faces are rough, but I assure you, their hearts kind!”

The woman moans against Sanzang’s chest, no doubt scared witless.

“Please, bodhisattva, have some more water. And we’ll warm you by the fire. Perhaps, then you can tell me what troubles you?”

She gulps, then nods, shaking as she clings onto Sanzang’s neck.

“Poor old thing really got a shock from your face, eh?” Bajie mutters to Wujing.

“Second brother, you’re not exactly a beauty yourself,” the third disciple mumbles back.

Sanzang stands, pulling the old woman along, her weight atop his, and his arms over hers. They head towards the fire, pace small and measured. And just before Sanzang can set her down, Wukong drops from a tree, like a rock come down. His tail squiggles, its fur stiff on end, a sign that the first disciple is on edge. Wukong leers forward in a creeping slouch, wrists bent against his staff, the as-you-would cudgel practically sinking into earth. He’s barely taller than Sanzang’s chest, a head or so under the shrunken woman’s height, and yet the shadow of a demon is no doubt there: wild, bitter, and thirsty for blood.

“So how long were you planning to keep this up?” the monkey asks, a grin on his mouth and a frown in his eyes.

“Wukong, what are you doing?” Sanzang says, aghast.

“I’m not talking to you, old man. Let the _demon_ speak.”

The woman gapes, clinging onto Sanzang as if she could bury herself in his red cassock, and fear apparent in her sagging eyes, whispers, “Elder, it’s not true. Please, please, believe me.”

Wukong snaps out a laugh, harsh as old bark. “You rehearse that? Master, how about this. I’ll welcome the _bodhisattva_ with a taste of my cudgel and you can see who’s lying for yourself.”

Then he kicks the staff into one hand, flips it into both, and crouches, fabric shifting as shoulders arch.

“And if she’s innocent, Old Sun’ll gladly bash his own brains out for you,” he says, with all the menace of desert venom.

“Elder, please,” the woman begs.

“Oh, come now, eldest brother!” Bajie says, “you’re scaring her to death. You think Master wouldn’t be able to spot a demon after all this time?”

“Wukong, we’ve been through this.” Sanzang presses the elder farther in, his arms circled like a shield, and turns, until she’s blocked from Wukong’s sight. “Must you do this every time?”

“And I’ve been right every time,” the monkey shoots back, “they’re always taking us for fools and I’ve had quite enough.”

Sanzang levels him with a glare, one the first disciple gladly returns, and for a split second, all Wujing can hear is the crackle of fire and flutter of dusk wind. And then, Wukong waves his hand, the cudgel shrinking into a pin needle. He kowtows instead, a quiet, “As you wish, Master” on his lips.

“That’s more like it!” Bajie says.

But Wujing’s not so convinced, because falling back is not the first disciple’s way, and just as he says, “Eldest brother-” the white horse whinnies.

Bailong breaks from his tether by the fire, and in a dragon’s fell swoop, slams into the woman’s back. With a cry, Sanzang lets go, and the elder tumbles away. And as she falls, Wujing sees, a glint of silver in her hands, the curve of a dagger, and a smooth, young palm. Bailong tackles her, but his hooves land too late, and the horse is left with only a dusty cloak.

“Master!” Wujing yells, already dashing towards where the dazed monk stands.

A clawed hand grabs Sanzang before the third disciple can reach. Nails dig into that cassock and pull him back, tendrils of white hair lashing onto him like a silk cocoon. The priest shifts, eyes turned until he’s face to face with the demon’s head, streaked with blue and deathly pale. It grins, victorious, veins stretching as its jaw stretches open.

But before the demon can gobble him whole, it’s smashed from behind, a cry of - “change!” - on Wukong’s tongue. The staff extends, thick as a ricebowl, and crunches hard against the demon’s skull. Blood and brain splatter out, but the devil gasps for one last breath. It topples left, Sanzang still tangled in its white strands, and that dagger falls. With a groan, Sanzang’s hands close around its handle. And he fumbles when the demon steadies and roars. The staff shrinks, and Wukong twists, until he’s between man and demon, and there, the monkey pries the devil away with bare hands. All three tumble and fall, and in Wujing’s next blink, there’s nothing left of the demon’s head, crushed to dust by their eldest brother’s hand.

Wukong rolls to his feet and claps the dirt from his hands, tail flicking left and right. Sanzang’s still struggling to escape that bundle of hair, Bajie now poking his rake in and out. Wukong takes a look and laughs, a short breath heaved, all the delight of a child proven right.

“See, old man?” he says between each chuckle, “I told you so!”

“Quit mocking your Master!” Sanzang says, “get me out of here!”

There’s a pool of blood blanketing grass, that demon’s flesh broken to bone by the as-you-would staff. Sanzang lies at the center of all its tangled hair, his hands stained red and those locks pink. Wukong blows a strand of fur his way, itself transformed into a needle sharp and thin. When Sanzang’s cut free, Bajie and Wujing rush to lift him up.

And Bailong whinnies once more, soft and subtle, no louder than a cricket’s hop. But Wujing hears. The prince is always silent, and he would never make a sound if he saw no need. So Wujing flicks his eyes their way. But Bailong stays still, and only Wukong’s walking towards that fire, staff swung behind his head. The sun has set by then, the sky a wash of red before blue night comes. Then it must be a trick of the light, Wujing thinks, because for a moment, he sees a shadow on the monkey’s waist, almost the color of blood.

* * *

Except it’s not.

* * *

They’re on the road before dawn comes, not another soul for miles on end. But it’s alright, the Master has said, we have each other. And of course, Wukong said he’d rather not have Bajie, and the pig accused him of bullying, and the white horse was silent. Wujing, however, rather likes the sound of that. When Juanlian was in heaven, faces passed and went, every acquaintance more formal than the last, every friendship an alliance, and every alliance a word.

He can’t quite remember his companions from then. _Because they left you to suffer and die_ , some bitter voice says. But his brothers, at least, he knows, from Bajie’s floppy ears to Wukong’s furry tail. And he thinks, in a crowd of a hundred monks, he would be able to pick out the Master’s head. These thoughts, though, he’d keep to himself, because he knows Bajie would laugh and Wukong would call him a fool. And as always, Bailong would not say a word. Ruminating on this, Wujing removes the canteen from his belt and holds it up for a sip.

“Lend me your water,” Wukong says, scurrying past.

“Wukong, get back here!” Sanzang calls from his place atop their horse. And again, Bailong whinnies. Thrice in two days, Wujing notes.

“Don’t you have your own?” Bajie sighs.

“Tsk! Would I have to ask Friar Sand if you’d just give me yours?”

“Don’t you know how thirsty I get on days like this? Have some compassion, big brother!”

“Mark me, idiot, I’ll remember this!”

“Master, he’s threatening me!”

Wujing hears Sanzang sigh, but without looking back, the priest says, “Wukong, leave Wuneng alone. Wujing, let him have a few sips.”

Without waiting for the third disciple’s consent, Wukong’s already climbed atop him and curled himself around the friar’s bicep.

“Thank you, old Sha. You’re a good brother, unlike some people!”

Wujing holds up his canteen, and the monkey takes it with eager hands. Wukong gulps in a couple swigs and tosses the object back, its cap following suit.

“Eldest brother,” Wujing says, “did you lose your water?”

“No, I finished it.”

“You should pace yourself,” Bajie comments, “your stupid monkey bladder can’t hold so much water at once.”

“Ah, leave me be, pig.”

Wujing grunts when Wukong’s tail pokes his eye, unintentionally, he hopes. “Second brother has a point. Why did you finish your water so soon, eldest brother?”

“Grandpa’s really thirsty today.” Then Wukong shrugs and hops off Wujing’s shoulders, no more to be said. But that tail keeps swishing and Wujing can’t help but think there’s more he should know.

* * *

And he should.

* * *

They don’t eat until long past noon, a meal of fried greens and cooked grains leftover from a salted box. Wukong fidgets, chopsticks in his feet, and spends more time scratching the back of his head than poking his food. The first disciple’s never been a picky eater,  but he’s never been a big eater either.

“I don’t see why eldest brother can’t take his cloud into the nearest village,” Bajie says between bites of rice, “you’ve always done it before, monkey. Now we’re stuck with this sorry meal.”

Wukong humphs and says, “Our meals have always been sorry. And I’m not your slave. Old Sun does whatever he wants.”

“Don’t pressure one another,” is all Sanzang says. He has one bite left, but it never enters the priest’s mouth.

And Wujing finds he’s lost his appetite as well.

* * *

Then he thinks.

* * *

They camp in a clearing at night. Sanzang sits by the fire, meditating, but his light snores give the sleep away. Bajie’s sprawled in his blankets, mouth open wide and tongue lolling down. And only Wujing lies still, breaths even, the illusion of sleep upon his face. Wukong’s huddled close to the fire, his tiny shape lost to a quilt the shade of earth. Bailong stands awake.

And Wujing wonders. Bailong is usually the first to go, the most tired of all after a day’s walk. And Wukong- the monkey’s told him before, “I hate sleeping,” a waste of time, he deems it. But that night, Wukong lies down without complaint. He doesn’t twitch or grumble, or so much as flip in his sleep. On nights like these, when it’s neither cool or hot, Wujing expects the monkey to clamber to his side and chatter away about nothing and nothings. Wujing suspects, because Wukong likes the sound of his own voice.

But Wukong keeps to himself. He only wakes once, near midnight, and says in a slurred murmur, “It’s cold.”

* * *

It’s not.

* * *

Wukong’s the last to wake at dawn. His eyes don’t open until Bailong nudges his head, and even then, they stay bleary for a few minutes more. Wujing and Bajie have spent a good portion of the morning trying to get him up, but sleep proves stubborn. Sanzang readies himself then, without Wukong’s help for once, and says, “Are we quite ready to go?”

“Would you look at that,” Wukong says, wiggling his way out of his quilt, “Bajie’s not the one sleeping in today.”

“So you ought to go easier on old Zhu, eh?” the pig says.

Wukong pops his bones and pulls on his robes, smoothing out each wrinkle again and again. Then he says, “It’s a cold morning, isn’t it.”

“Not if you ask me,” Bajie answers first.

Wukong doesn’t wait for Wujing’s answer. He yawns and takes his place by Sanzang’s side, hands and feet on the ground, as if walking on two is too much a task this morning.

“Stand upright, Wukong,” Sanzang sighs, “this is poor form.”

“Fine, fine,” the monkey says. He jumps up, then, and lets that tail flick. Then he says, “It’s a cold morning, isn’t it.”

“Eldest brother,” Wujing tells him, “you just said that.”

“Did I now?” Wukong looks to the sky, lost in thought, and walks on. “Come on, old Sha.”

* * *

Then he follows.

* * *

In the afternoon, Wukong walks straight into a tree. The monkey spits out a mouthful of bark as Bajie laughs.

“I knew you didn’t like women,” the pig chortles, “who knew you liked plants!?”

“Shut up, idiot,” Wukong growls, “or I’ll make you.”

Bajie bends down, until his eyeline is almost even with the first disciple’s, and says, “You know I’m only joking, big brother. I’d never get on _your_ bad side.”

“Ha! As if you’d dare.”

Wukong swats Bajie away and again takes their party’s lead. Then Wujing sidles up to him and asks, “Eldest brother, did you get enough sleep last night?”

“I’d say old Monkey got too much sleep,” Bajie mutters.

“I’d have gotten more if it wasn’t for your snoring,” Wukong quips, and he hops away from both, more than eager to return to Sanzang’s side.

* * *

Too eager.

* * *

Wukong goes missing in the night, and though nobody asks for him, Wujing goes looking anyway. He finds the monkey counting stars on a rock. Wukong’s staring into the sky, golden eyes glossed over. In the dark, those irises glow like soft candlelight.

“Eldest brother, come back to camp,” Wujing says, taking a seat beside him.

“No, you lot are noisy.”

“ _We’re_ noisy?” the third disciple says, amused, “really?”

“I don’t like your tone, old Sha.” Then Wukong sucks in a breath and says, “When you were in the River of Sand, what did you think of the stars?”

It’s a question nobody’s ever asked. Wujing blinks, scratches his rough beard, and replies, “I thought they were mocking me. They just made me think of merry celestials. I know it was petty, eldest brother, but that’s what I thought.”

“I thought so once too.” And Wujing can hear the smile in his voice. “Under Five Finger Mountain. But after a while, it didn’t matter to me anymore. It was nice, really, seeing them there. Then I could pretend someone out there still remembered me.”

“Eldest brother-”

Wukong laughs, and clicks his teeth in mockery. “Never mind. Grandpa Sun’s out of sorts. I’m not some sentimental fool. That’s Master’s job.”

“Do you want to return now?”

“Alright.” Wukong hops off the rock and takes in a sharp breath. Wujing walks by his side, unsure if the monkey’s slouch is lower than usual.

* * *

It is.

* * *

The next day, nobody sleeps in. And for a while, Wujing lets his guard down. He takes in the scenery and admires the wildflowers along their path. Birds come and go, free and unbound, and he thinks on that chain of skulls. Then there’s Bailong’s reins, Wukong’s band, Bajie’s scarves, and their Master’s too-heavy hat. And their promise of freedom lies west. For Wujing, at least, he can shed his skulls. Absolution awaits, and he can taste it on his tongue.

“Do you know why the flowers are so beautiful, Master?” Wukong says, holding up an orchid to Sanzang’s nose.

“Why?”

“Because animals peed on them.”

“You base macaque!”

Flustered, Sanzang pockets the orchid and looks away with an angry sigh. Wukong giggles beside him and says, “Not my fault if you have no sense of humor, old man.”

“Crudeness is not humor.”

Then Bailong stops in his tracks. And Wukong puts a hand to his ear, the cudgel rolled out.

“Master, brace yourself,” the monkey says.

“Against what?” Then Sanzang yells, the horse having bucked him off. Wujing catches the Master just as that ragtag band of demons come, a small group of foxes biting off more than they can chew. Bajie flanks him, rake pointed up, and whoops as Wukong leaps into the fray, staff stretched out.

“Wukong, wait-” Sanzang cries, but Bajie cuts him off. “Relax, Master. Eldest brother can handle a hundred of these weaklings in his sleep!”

Paling, Sanzang turns away, muttering prayers as Wukong makes short work of the demon band. He does not see- but Wujing does- their leader land a foot upon the first disciple’s side. And it’s quick, almost a spark of wind, but Wujing knows what he sees to be true: Wukong winces, slight enough, and grits his teeth. Then he slams the fox down.

“Barely standing and still fighting us?” the demon hisses, “just let us have him, _Great Sage_. Haven’t you betrayed enough devils now!?”

Wukong cackles, because it surpasses a laugh. “No, I haven’t ‘betrayed’ enough.”

And the staff comes down.

* * *

Then everything else.

* * *

They leave the foxes burning on a pyre and move on their way. It’s almost sunset when they come across the river, the pink sky in its coursing path. Wujing gathers his pails and again fills them to their brims. The canteens come next.

And while Sanzang rests by Bailong’s side, the horse chewing on bits of grass, Bajie yawns and stretches along that bank. Next to Wujing, Wukong stands up to the friar’s thigh. He stares at himself in the river, gold fur bristling in wind and stained with demon blood. Wukong stays rooted, ignoring Bajie’s taunts and the rippling water, too distracted by the reflection he sees. The tail flicks.

“I always knew he was a narcissist,” Bajie laughs, “but this is a whole new level!”

“Eldest brother,” Wujing says, tapping a hand against the monkey’s shoulder, “your feet are soaked.”

“Oh.”

There’s something else Wujing wants to ask, but the thought is obscene, somehow wrong and insulting and blasphemous against the Great Sage’s name. _Barely standing and still fighting us._ No demon would have the audacity to say that to Sun Wukong’s face, much less a low level devil like that.  

“Come, eldest brother. Let’s have supper and be on our way.”

The sun glares down, crimson over earth. And Wukong smiles, a lopsided grin. “I’d like a bath first.”

“Eldest brother-”

Splash.

Pilgrim falls, and the river runs red.

* * *

He runs in.

* * *

Sun Wukong does not fall. He does not need Wujing to fish him from the river or Wuneng to cut his clothes apart or either of them to dig at his fur until they find a spot of red, a gash across his gut, deep in flesh and tangled in scarlet gold. This much, they all know.

If anyone falls, it’s not him. It’s Bailong who breaks his hind leg when he’s knocked off a cliff. And it’s Wukong who throws the horse atop his back and climbs back up. It’s Wukong who sets that leg and soothes his mane, with these words- “Xiao Bailong, you did well, so well.”

It’s Wujing who collapses in the middle of a storm. And it’s Wukong who hops away on his cloud, then returns with a satch of Gobi sand. It’s Wukong who pours the sand over Sha Wujing and laughs, “I knew you’d be fine!”

It’s Bajie who almost dies when he’s tricked with a poisoned cake. And it’s Wukong who finds the baker and beats out a cure. It’s Wukong who pinches the pig’s ear and dumps a herb down his throat, all while saying, “Idiot, die on me and I’ll find you in hell!”

And it’s Sanzang who stumbles and falls and screams, again and again. And it’s Wukong who pulls him back and up and up again. It’s Wukong who says, “I’m tired of saving you, old man” and does it anyway. It’s Wukong who’d cried, “I never want to see you again!” but came back anyway.

Because Sun Wukong does not fall. And Sanzang does not need to cradle his head, hold his tears back, and say, “Why- why is he bleeding? He said he was fine.”

He said it was nothing.

Sanzang does not need to cling to Wujing’s collar, eyes wide and words incoherent as he babbles, “Wuneng, Wujing, Xiao Bailong- Wukong will be fine. He has to be. What do we do? What do I do?”

“Master,” Bajie says, “calm down, it’s not your fault.”

_With a groan, Sanzang’s hands close around its handle. And he fumbles when the demon steadies and roars. The staff shrinks, and Wukong twists, until he’s between man and demon, and there, the monkey pries the devil away with bare hands. All three tumble and fall, the demon pushing Wukong back as Sanzang prepares to slice those strands. The blade points up and touches the monkey’s flesh, past fabric and fur until blood splurts out. Wukong turns, wordless-_

_-and in Wujing’s next blink, there’s nothing left of the demon’s head, crushed to dust by their eldest brother’s hand._

“But it is!” Then Sanzang buries his face in the friar’s chest, sobs undone.

The pilgrims do not need Wujing. But he knows they do. So the third disciple holds their Master close and says, “Master, it’s going to be fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! I don't like leaving short WIPs' hanging, so I'm going to finish this fic up. It felt better to split part 2 into another chapter to keep things short (and hopefully my next update won't take this long). All I wanted to do was write a quick 2-shot, and now look at me ha ha ha. I promise that it won't get any longer.

Bajie is the one who stitches the monkey up, because Master’s hands are shaking and Wujing is too big. The pig’s mouth is puckered throughout, eyes narrowed, concentrating. The tiger kilt is gone, as are the robes underneath, cut to shreds and tossed aside, and though Wujing can still see the first disciple’s fur, he can’t help but feel that they’ve done something terrible to Wukong. This feels wrong, he believes, as if they’ve skinned their brother and removed his armor.

And lying there, head on Sanzang’s lap, without his shoes or much of anything, Wukong’s somehow shrunken. Wujing glances at the ups and downs of that small chest as Bajie applies his gauze. And for the first time, he wonders if Wukong’s bones are as brittle as they appear (he knows they’re tough as iron), if his skin is as tender as it looks now (and he knows it’s not), if his body really has so much blood to lose (and this, he doesn’t know).

“He’s burning up,” Sanzang mumbles, a wrist against Wukong’s brow.

“And he calls me the idiot,” Bajie says. “Silly monkey’s left this injury open for three days. And he always says I give him trouble.”

The pig bends lower, until he’s face to face with Wukong’s shut eyes. “So you better stop telling me off so much. Old Zhu’s got an argument against you now too, eh?”

Wujing half expects the monkey to let loose one eye and snap at Bajie for giving him lip. Wukong says nothing and almost disappointed, Bajie stands up. It’s night by then, no moon in sight. Wujing looks to Bailong, wondering if the prince would finally speak, but the horse is staring at Wukong’s head. The monkey sleeps in Sanzang’s grip, bandages stark white against his messy fur. Wujing approaches and says, “Master, this can’t be comfortable for you. Let me take eldest brother for the night.”

“It’s fine,” the monk says, “I should take care of him.”

“Eldest brother wouldn’t want you to fret over him. Please, Master. I insist.”

Sanzang hesitates, looking from Wukong’s face to Wujing’s pleading eyes, and when he finally relents, says, “Fine. Watch him well, Wujing.”

The third disciple bows and stoops. He takes Wukong from Sanzang’s hands, feeling the slightest bit guilty for the Master’s fallen face. Wukong’s heavier than he looks, but this, they all knew. And still, Wujing stares down in awe, because the monkey is all but lying in both his hands, all of him not enough to warrant the friar’s arms. He’s warm in Wujing’s grip, so bony the third disciple can see the shape of ribs behind fur, and for a split second, Wujing is afraid of crushing Wukong in his grip. One crunch and perhaps those bones would break, the flesh tearing with, and it makes Wujing sick. Fragile, wounded, weak- the first disciple is none of these things, but now he is, and the proof is in Wujing’s hands.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bajie says, thrusting a blanket at Wujing’s head, “wrap him up already. Damned monkey will freeze to death.”

Wujing shakes the blanket from his face, and as he bundles Wukong in, careful not to touch his waist, asks, “Second brother, can- can he really?”

“Oh, I don’t know! He shouldn’t be wounded, but he is. He shouldn’t have a fever, but he does. So maybe he _can_ freeze to death. I think he’ll do it just to mess with me!”

“Eldest brother’s not that spiteful.”

Bajie snorts and turns away, ready to turn in for the night. Sanzang lies by the fire, eyes wide open, as if afraid of something more. And behind Wujing, the horse whinnies, softer than a whisper, but enough to make Wujing say, “Eldest brother will be fine.”

* * *

 

He hopes.

* * *

 

Wukong wakes up in Wujing’s arms, head nestled against the crook of a blue elbow. First sunlight washes over his fur, its strands bristling in dawn breeze. Then Wujing stirs, breath held as he waits for the monkey to speak. Wukong blinks, groggy, and mutters, “Old Sha? Where are we?”

“In the camp. Eldest brother, you fainted.”

Wukong’s eyes drift down to the gauze binding his torso. Trembling fingers run over each layer, and Wujing wonders if it’s a matter of light, because he thinks the monkey’s fur has lost some of its golden sheen.

“Will Master send me away?”

Wujing knits his brow and says, “No, of course not. We’ve all been worried.”

“But I caused him trouble,” the monkey says matter-of-factly, “I try not to, old Sha, I really do. But I’m naughty, I’ve always been.”

“Eldest-”

“You’ll vouch for me, won’t you? I didn’t mean to let this happen. I didn’t want to scare him.”

“Wait-”

“I don’t want to be sent away again. Then what would happen to you lot? You’d all die and… and…”

Wukong stares into the sky, tears running free as he sniffles, and Wujing presses a thumb to the monkey’s forehead. It’s hot. The first disciple isn’t in his right mind, this much is clear, and Wujing thinks the fever might be why.

“It’d be all my fault,” the monkey says.

Wujing holds him close, fishing for the right words to say. “No, no it won’t. We’re fine, eldest brother, and nobody’s going to cast you out. Master won’t be mad. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

And to Wujing’s surprise, Wukong snuggles closer to his chest. “Yes, I did. I was weak.”

“If you’re weak, then what does that make me?”

“Weaker.”

Wujing ends the argument there and calls for the rest of their band instead. Bailong arrives first, fresh from sleep, and likely not in his right senses either, because his first action is to nuzzle Wukong’s head. The monkey moans, and Wujing isn’t sure if it’s in comfort or pain.

“I hope you slept well,” Bajie tells him, “you kept the rest of us up all night!”

“Ha!” Wukong says, “my brain’s not bleeding, idiot. I know you slept like a baby.”

With Bajie, at least, the first disciple seems as he’s always been. Then the Master comes and Wukong all but hops up, tail skittish. Sanzang takes his hand and says, “Wukong, are you alright? You gave me such a fright.”

Wukong lowers his head, as if expecting a reprimand to follow. It never comes. Hopeful, he looks up. “Old Sun’s just fine. You should worry about yourself, old man.”

Sanzang frowns. “Holy men shouldn’t lie. You know this.”

But Wukong only scoffs as he wriggles away from all of them. He picks up the kilt, wraps it around himself, and rummages through their luggage for a child’s cassock. As far as Wujing can tell, the monkey’s as fit as he ever was. When Wukong’s done dressing himself, bandages hidden behind his new robes, he returns to the monk.

“Master, we should hit the road,” he says, even antsier than usual, “we’ll get to the west so much faster.”

Then he takes a bundle of luggage upon himself and runs ahead, knuckles scraping ground. Wukong leaves on all fours. Sanzang doesn’t say a word because all is well.

* * *

 

Except it’s not.

* * *

 

Wukong doesn’t look at Wujing for the rest of the morning. He spends his time taunting Bajie and petting Bailong instead. And Wujing suspects that he’s avoiding the Master as well. But as erratic and outspoken as Pilgrim is, he has never worn his heart on his sleeve. If Wukong does not want to talk, Wujing knows he won’t. Sanzang does not press on and the day goes by in stride. The pilgrims stop for a late lunch when the sun is highest, taking refuge under the shade of maidenhair trees. When Bailong’s settled and the monks are rested, Bajie unpacks their box of food.

The pig snorts. “Would you look at that. We’re out of grains. See, this is why we should have gone for alms.”

“Then what should we do now?” Sanzang asks, “how long can we go without food?”

“If we pace ourselves,” Wujing says, careful, “two days more should be enough time before we stop for supplies.”

Wukong climbs over Bajie’s head, the latter oinking as the monkey steps down. “You’re all so whiny! We’re not in the desert. Old Sun’ll find you something to eat.”

Wujing protests, but before he gets the word out- “Eldest brother, I-”

Wukong talks right over in a half-snarl. “Shut up, Old Sha! Grandpa doesn’t want your opinion.”

Then he clambers off, leaving Sanzang calling his name, and when that fails, the monk is left to call him names: “You base macaque, get back here! Naughty ape!”

Before the hour is up, Wukong returns, hopping on jittery feet. He grins, a sack of red berries in his hand, some of their juice splashing over his palms, tinting the gold fur pink. Tail flicking, he lands by Sanzang’s side and shoves the sack in his cassock.

“You disobeyed me,” Sanzang mutters, a little red in the cheeks.

Wukong pulls at the flags hanging from Sanzang’s hat and sniggers. Leaning close to the monk, he says, “But I got us a meal, Master. I always have your best interests at heart, old man. Now I think it’s prudent if you divide the berries. If it was up to me, Bajie would get none.”

“I heard that!” the pig cries, “Master, he’s trying to exclude me!”

“Shut up, idiot!” Wukong snaps.

And as they bicker, Sanzang begins counting each berry, rubbing each between his fingers for hints of wetness. Wujing counts with him until a rustle of leaves catches his eye. Wukong’s tail disappears behind a bush.

“That’s right, run away!” Bajie calls after, “we all know you can’t really face me, monkey!”

“Wuneng, what did you say to him?” Sanzang demands.

“What did _I_ say? Master, that ape’s got a screw loose today!”

Then Bajie takes his share of berries, shoves them into his mouth, and fumes, “Well, Old Zhu’s not going after that little shit. I’m not his servant.”

“But you _are_ his brother,” Wujing mutters, and when Bailong nudges his elbow- which is as high as the horse can go- the third disciple sighs. “I’ll calm eldest brother down.”

* * *

 

It’s easier said than done.

* * *

 

Wujing finds Wukong curled by the stump of a tree, his robes caught in bramble and his tail limp over grass, bits of berry sprinkled around. The third disciple approaches, kowtowing although Wukong can’t see him, and says, “Eldest brother, it’s time to go.”

Wukong says nothing. Wujing kneels by his side and tugs the monkey’s tattered robes free, careful not to get thorns in his own flesh.

“I know you’re angry with second brother, but we all know he’s an idiot. Please, eldest-”

Wujing makes to spin Wukong around, and when his hand pushes the monkey up, thumb touching right beneath the ribs, the first disciple cries out. Wukong falls, back flat in labored breaths and snarled gasps. Alarmed, Wujing catches him, eyes darting to the sullied grass. He does not see berries on the ground. He sees blood.

And Wukong’s palms, still pressed to his torso, are overrun with red.

“I can’t go back like this,” the monkey says softly.

“We can fix this, eldest brother,” Wujing replies, heart pounding so harshly he has no doubt Wukong can hear. It takes every ounce of nerve to keep himself calm, and already he knows he’s failing. “But if you stay out here, it’s only going to get worse.”

Wukong shakes his head, and in that moment, the first disciple does look every bit as old as he’s always claimed. “It’s not what you lot can do, Old Sha. The woods have eyes. It won’t be long now before everyone knows I can’t fight. You were a demon too- you know what we’re like.”

“Master…”

“I’ll be useless to him. To all of you- and the last thing we need is another dead weight.”

And for several beats, Wujing hears nothing but birdsong and the mingled rhythm of his own blood thrumming and Wukong’s thin breaths. Between the lines, he knows exactly what Wukong is asking of him- to leave him behind, wounded and alone, to fall prey to whatever comes next. The sheer hypocrisy of it all makes Wujing laugh, a cruel rumbling sound he so rarely lets out.

“Eldest brother, I always defer to you, but not this time. We listen to Master this time.”

Before Wukong can protest, Wujing’s scooped him into his arms, careful of the wetness on his side. “If it had been me instead, Xiao Bailong, even second brother, you’d sooner die than leave us. And-”

“Wujing!”

The third disciple fixes his gaze on Wukong, something not quite deference and not quite a glare, the blank look of the sand ogre he’s given every victim that’s come along the running river Sha. And under that, the steadfast gaze of General Juanlian, filled with a confidence he’d almost forgotten he had.

“-if you think I’ll let anyone leave you to die, then Great Sage Sun, you’re out of your mind.”

* * *

 

He means it.

* * *

 

Wukong is morose for the rest of the afternoon. He does not speak when Wujing drags him back to Sanzang’s side, not even a mutter on his lips when the third disciple exposes his wound for them to see. He says nothing against Sanzang’s scolding and even less at Bajie’s teasing. He lets the other two disciples wash and dress the wound, its stitches undone, and when their task is finished, Wukong grabs Bailong’s reins without a word.

“And where do you think you’re going now?” Sanzang says, “haven’t you gotten into enough trouble?”

“Tsk! You’re one to talk, Master!”

Wujing isn’t surprised that Wukong’s first words after so long amount to an insult. But Sanzang pales, fumbling for the right words to rebuke Wukong, and Wujing can already hear the words “rotten ape” on his tongue.

“What’s your problem, monkey?” Bajie says, “if you want to die so badly, you shouldn’t have gone through all that trouble for immortality in the first place! You owe Master an apology!”

“ _You_ should apologize for existing!” Wukong snaps back, his face ashen, and then, he steps off, tugging Bailong with him.

Then the horse stops, hooves digging into soil. Ahead, Wukong stumbles, crashing into dirt when Bailong refuses to budge. Panting, the monkey climbs back up, a hand to his side. He tilts his head, and eyes flicking every which way, says, “You… fine, fine. If none of you think I can make it, I’ll prove you wrong.”

Wukong spins on his heels, back arched, and walks forward, swaying in the wind. The sun sets in front, and for once, Wujing does not see the monkey’s fur reflect the gold of sky. All he sees is a hint of sickly grey. Wukong is a dot in the distance by then, determined to reach the west, with or without his companions. And when Sanzang’s reined in his temper enough to call the monkey back, Wukong crumples in a little cloud of dust.

* * *

 

And his shadow bleeds.

* * *

 

Wujing hangs the remains of Wukong’s clothing on nearby branches, leaving his kilt to dry. He’s done his best to remove the stains of blood, but Wukong will have to take care of the rest himself. Sanzang remains by the campfire, Wukong’s head on his lap, the monkey now a bundle of cold sweat and shallow breaths. Bajie holds his limbs at bay whenever Wukong tries to wiggle free, ripping and tearing at the hole in his side. From where he stands, Wujing can already see the gauze seeping red, the bandage not so stark against Wukong’s darkened fur.

“Don’t hurt him,” Sanzang tells Bajie, “don’t hold him so tightly.”

“Relax, Master. I’ve taken care of him before. When the Yellow Wind Devil took you, remember? You should have seen him cry- ‘Bajie, Bajie, where are you? I can’t see’- you should have seen him.”*

But the laughter doesn’t reach Bajie’s eyes, and Wujing knows the pig well enough to be certain that he is  _not_ relaxed. From the bushes, Bailong enters, free of his equine shape, in a form the third disciple can never quite place. White robes trail behind as he comes to Wujing’s side, mane of silver hair down to his waist, each strand washed blue in the night. But an inhuman grace remains on his face, sharp and jarring to look upon.

“Elder brother,” Bailong says, the dragon’s voice almost an echo of the deep sea, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine. And you? You wouldn’t take this form if you didn’t want to talk.”

Bailong nods. “Eldest brother, he wouldn’t want me to tell you. I don’t want Master to panic and I don’t know how second brother will handle it- but he’s awfully good at playing dumb.”

“Too good if you ask me.”

Bailong smiles briefly before his lips take a sad turn. “Can I trust you, elder brother?”

“We’ll have to see, your highness.”

Bailong gulps in a breath. “Why do you think eldest brother’s still bleeding?”

“I’ve tried not to think about it. But I don’t know what kind of poison’s strong enough to draw blood from him.”

“And what if I told you it was a regular blade?”

Wujing looks at Bailong, then, brow knitting. “What are you saying?”

Hesitant, Bailong fiddles with his sleeves. “Eldest brother doesn’t have a cast of iron.”

A breath.

And another.

“What- what?” Wujing says, dumbfounded.

“It was a rumor, a rumor he never denied. And he’s so good in battle that no one’s ever been able to touch him anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you remember Silken Cave? After he freed us, eldest brother kept going to, you know…”

“Pee. It’s alright, younger brother, you can say the word ‘pee.’”

“That. I followed him because he’d really gone to do that too much.” Bailong’s cheeks blushed green. “And then- he wasn’t doing that at all. The spiders cut him with their webs. The centipede did worse. He’d been dressing his wounds.”

“Why didn’t you tell Master?”

“Eldest brother said he’d cut out my tongue if I did. Told me not to trouble the Master.”

“He probably would.”

Bailong looks to where Sanzang sat, Wukong shivering in his arms. “But I don’t care what he does with my tongue. What worried me was whatever else he’s hidden from Master, from us. What worried me was how blind we all were. Eldest brother could die fighting for us, and we’d be none the wiser.”

The dragon says nothing more. Wujing puts a thumb on Bailong’s cheek, the digit already covering up half his face, and brushes away the tears that slip out.

“He’s not going to die,” Friar Sand says.

* * *

 

He hopes he’s right.

* * *

 

In the morning, Wukong does not stir. Sanzang says his name in gentle tones and Bajie tries to rouse him with little jeers. But the first disciple’s tail doesn’t so much as twitch. When nothing else works, Wujing rolls Wukong into his blanket and sets him upon their luggage.

“Really?” Bajie says, “we’re doing it this way?”

“If you have a better idea, second brother, I’m all ears.”

The words come out sharp. Bajie looks up at Wujing, snout twitching, and frowns. Between them, Wukong lies stiff, his face a bloodless white.

“You know, I don’t like your attitude, Old Sha,” Bajie remarks, “you’re forgetting your place.”

Wujing looms above the pig, more than willing to indulge in his full height. And almost menacing, he says, “Would you care to remind me, second brother?”

Then Sanzang steps in, gathering the monkey into his arms with some effort. “Stop it! We’ve a long way ahead and I don’t want trouble from either of you! It’s base, and cruel, and childish!”

Bajie puts a hand on the monk’s sleeve. Sanzang shakes him off with a sharp flick.

“Quit it!” the priest snaps.

And Wukong in one arm, Sanzang pulls himself over Bailong’s saddle, cassock shifting as he sits. He places the monkey in front, Wukong’s head poised between Bailong’s mane and the Tang priest’s chest. Still muttering to himself, Sanzang spurs Bailong on, and as the horse leaves, Bajie follows with his trailing rake. Wujing stays behind, biting his tongue until his mouth tastes blood. Then he follows, trying in vain to remember the Master’s calming prayers. There’s a tension about them, much like a rotten reed of wheat, enough to spoil the whole lot. And Wujing can’t help but think- eldest brother would know what to do. _Eldest brother always knows what to do_.

They say nothing to one another until well into the noon. Because as it turns out, eldest brother is right again, and a demon accosts them in daylight once more.

She attacks Bajie first, thrusting the pig into a tangle of bark and vines, and as Wuneng squeals, his rake cuts through a neverending coil of green. And resentment forgotten, Wujing comes to his aid, his spade immediately trapped by thorns. Vines wrap around his feet before Wujing sinks into the dirt.

“Master!” he cries.

Bailong buckles, all but throwing Sanzang off. Then, he too is taken by the demon’s leaves.

“Wuneng!” Sanzang gasps, “Wujing! H- help!”

As he sinks, Wujing sees the demon’s face, a mask of white streaked green. Her hair falls upon the Tang priest’s face, and red lips parted, she pulls him in, as if about to bite his flesh then and there. Wujing twists, and twists, his spade unmoving when-

“Old Sha, stop moving.”

Friar Sand stops, eyes whipping up to fall on the first disciple’s shape. Wukong stands beside Bailong, slouched so low his knuckles almost drag against the ground. The blanket lies in a pool by his feet and again, his tail swishes. Wujing catches the glisten of sweat atop his brow and the gulps of breath that tell him it won’t be long before Wukong falls again.

“Eldest brother, help!” Bajie calls.

“Idiot, just quit moving. It-” The monkey winces. “It’s not real. None of this is. Just illusions.”

“But she’s not an illusion!” Sanzang says, “and she’s really going to eat me!”

At this, Wukong would have laughed. Wujing can almost hear him say, ‘Then let her, old man! Ha ha ha!” But the snickers never come. Wukong scowls, casts his gaze on the demon’s eyes, and says, “Let my Master go.”

It’s the demon who laughs. “I heard you were a mighty braggy lot, but it’s just rumors after all. I don’t think anyone here’s going to stop me, least of all you, monkey.”

Wukong steps forward, a low growl on his lips, and just as a spark of fear returns to the demon’s face, he goes down.

“Oy, oy!” Bajie says, “monkey, you can sleep later! Save the old man first!”

Wujing gives in, the vines taking him down, and as soon as his body goes limp, the spade slides free. From the corner of his eye, he sees Bailong do the same, his struggle gone, and the vines dropping dead.

“Wait!” Sanzang screams, the demon’s mouth again closing in, “wait!”

“And why would I do that?” she purrs.

Wukong pushes himself up, kicks a foot to his ear, and hisses,  _“So I can kill you!”_

The foot comes out, a needle tucked between two toes. He flicks it into the air, catches the cudgel with both hands, and says, “Change!” The staff shoots out, thick as a ricebowl and length unending. It drives a clean wedge between the demon and her prey, and before she can cry out, Wukong’s fist is upon her. He knocks her back and crushes her with a swing of his staff.

The vines pop into nothing and little devils spring from their mistress’s blood. Wukong makes short work of them all, the cudgel grinding them into nothing with none of his signature flare. Wujing hears no taunt leave the monkey’s lips, no laugh or word. For once, there are no theatrics to Wukong’s attack, and in three blinks, he’s done.

The cudgel shrinks in the first disciple’s hand, a barrage of smoke and blood at his feet. Wukong doesn’t gloat. He looks to Sanzang and says, “Master, will you do Old Sun a favor?”

“Wukong, what is it?”

“Step aside.”

Brow furrowed, Sanzang obliges. As soon as he takes the first step left, Wukong collapses, face-first into the patch of grass where the monk once stood.

* * *

 

There’s blood on the saddle.

* * *

 

The stitches don’t hold. Wukong’s blood spreads past the gauze and stains Bailong’s coat red. It runs through Sanzang’s cassock and leaves blossoms along the road. And it seems to finally dawn on them all that their circumstances are very, very real, as truthful as the color of the Great Sage’s blood.

Sanzang holds Wukong close, the monk himself almost as pale as his sleeping pupil. But the Master says nothing, numbed by the sight of all that blood. And the second disciple walks at the head, Bailong’s reins in his hand, no doubt wondering what they should do. Wujing wonders the same. He thinks back on Bailong’s words, and farther back to Wukong’s own. There’s an answer to be had, but Wujing does not have it.

When the sun sets, Bailong gives a soft whinny. Wujing manages to put together a shoddy camp and Bajie tends their Master, offering water and massages for the aches in his head. Sanzang refuses it all.

“Wuneng, take care of your brother,” he says, more a prayer than an order.

“Old Sha, help me out,” Bajie tells Wujing.

But Wujing is already by his side, Bajie’s demands more out of reflex than anything else. Wujing doesn’t mind- he needs the sound of speech in the night, anything at all to distract him from the monkey’s weakening shape.

“You were in no condition to play hero,” Bajie tells Wukong, bloodied bandages between his hands, “but that was something heroic, I’ll give you that, monkey.”

“How does it look?” Sanzang asks, his back to the disciples.

“See for yourself, Master.”

Sanzang shakes his head. “No, Wuneng… I, I can’t bear it.”

“It’s not good,” Wujing says, “I think it’s gotten worse.”

Sanzang’s head sinks lower and Bajie breathes a sigh Wujing’s way. “Show some tact, little brother!”

“Master would like to know the truth,” the third disciple says.

And the truth is the wound has darkened. It looks jagged and ravaged in the dark, blood bubbling up and down in its bosom. Bits of black and red fall together, cushioned by the unruly grey fur around, no hint of gold left. Between fur and blood is skin, puffed and raw from the infection that’s set in, remnants of thrice-torn stitches cutting through.

“And how do you know what Master wants?” Bajie demands weakly.

“I don’t.” Wujing cups a hand to Wukong’s still head, again marveling at how small the first disciple really is. “It’s what eldest brother would want.”

Then he feels Bailong nuzzle him from behind, and suddenly tired to the bone, Wujing removes his hand and runs it along the horse’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments/kudos are more than welcome!
> 
> * This fic isn't based on any particular adaptation, but I'm lifting the Yellow Wind Demon encounter directly from the 1986 series, where a blinded Wukong did canonly stumble around crying for Bajie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this WIP is now complete! Hopefully you'll enjoy the last chapter of this story. And for anyone reading From Here the Rain Falls, apologies in advance for any similar elements (again, unfortunately inevitable because Rain was based on this fic and I just wanted to let the original gen. story see the light of day as well!).

In the morning, the pilgrims pack up without a word. They take to the road before the sun is high, and save for the sound of Bailong’s hooves, their journey is as silent as the songless air. Sanzang keeps Wukong upon the saddle, wedged between his cassock and Bailong’s mane, the monkey himself tucked tight in a blanket and gauze stained pink. The eldest disciple sleeps well into the afternoon, his head lolled against the horse’s neck.

They stop once to take their noon meal, a sorry lunch of cooked leaves and leftover rice. And as Bailong munches nearby grass, Wukong stays placed against his side. Wujing washes the blood from the horse’s saddle, and Sanzang again dresses the monkey’s torso with what little gauze they have left. The Tang priest and his disciples do this without a word, and when the sun flashes red, they’re on the move once more.

“He smells funny,” Bajie whispers to Wujing, Bailong’s tail bobbing left and right as the horse walks in front.

“Second brother, what-”

“Not so loud,” the pig hisses, gesturing for Wujing to slow down, “don’t want Master to hear.”

And rather irritated, Wujing says, “I’m not eldest brother, second brother. I can’t find the humor in your jokes.”

“I’m not joking, Old Sha. Monkey’s got a funny smell to him, and it’s not piss. He’s not doing well with that wound- I don’t think he’s got long left.”

Jaw tight, Wujing glares. “He’s the Great Sage Equaling Heaven. He’ll be fine. Why are you telling me this?”

“Maybe you or I could take a detour. The Bodhisattva’s got to have a way to fix ol’ Monkey up.”

“You know we can’t do that. Not if we don’t want everyone in the three realms to know eldest brother’s condition.”

“Old Sha-”

“We’re falling behind.”

Wujing adjusts his spade and walks on, a slow flutter in his chest and chain of skulls much too loud against the curses in his head. He does not need his hopes raised and deflated, and he does not appreciate the helplessness weighing above them all.

* * *

Because he had thought they would pull through.

* * *

During supper, Wukong stirs in Sanzang’s lap, a fuzzy bundle of grunts and whimpers. Wujing drops his bowl and stumbles over to the Master’s side, Bailong at the priest’s shoulder, and Bajie right behind. At least in the firelight, Wujing thinks, eldest brother’s fur almost looks as gold as it once was.

“You,” Wukong rasps, one eye turned up at Bajie, “you’re the one who smells funny.”

“You should show me more respect,” Bajie retorts, “if I didn’t feel so sorry for you, I would have beaten you for that.”

“Idiot, I’d like to see you try.” Wukong flashes a grin, sharp and devilish, and twisting it into a grimace, sits himself up.

Sanzang grabs him before he topples, and gasping, Wukong looks up. “Old man, are you fine? You didn’t get tricked into marriage while I was out, did you?”

“Wukong, now’s not the time to joke around,” the monk huffs, “we were worried.”

“Ah, worry about yourself, Master.” Then, still leaning into the monk’s embrace, Wukong shifts his gaze at Wujing. “And you, Old Sha? How are you holding up?”

“I’m just fine, eldest brother.”

“And Xiao Bailong?”

The dragon whinnies, and Wukong’s lids droop in some tired relief. “So that demon didn’t eat you lot. You ought to thank your grandpa for that.”

“Who’s calling _you_ grandpa?” Bajie taunts, “you’re as small as a baby chicken out in the wild. Really, you should be thanking us for keeping you alive.”

“Wuneng,” Sanzang reprimands.

Wujing expects the first disciple to jump in with another sharp insult, enough to cut at Bajie’s ears and again raise their Master’s ire. And all would be as it was. But Wukong is quiet, still and shivering in Sanzang’s grip, arms tucked around his waist. His pupils stay fixed on the fire, an emptiness about them, as if the monkey is thinking about _how_ to think.

“Eldest brother?” Wujing ventures to ask.

“I was in that crucible for forty-nine nights,” the monkey says, “I used to think it burned away some of grandpa’s senses. You know what, Old Sha? I don’t really like it, these senses.”

He removes a hand, holding it up to the firelight. Wukong stretches the fingers, the skin dulled against faded fur. Wujing squints, wondering if it’s a trick of ember and shadow.

The palm is wet, strand of fur webbed together with dark red.

“Wuneng, get the bandages,” Sanzang says to the second disciple, _“now.”_

Bajie stumbles off without arguing, but he does cry back, “Damn it, monkey, if you’re bleeding again, just say so! No need to make a show of it!”

“So what?” Wukong says, more to the fire than Bajie, “you need the exercise anyway.”

Then he blinks, slow, and drawls, “Wujing, put the fire out. It’s so hot out here… in the desert.”

“Eldest brother, we’re not in the desert.”

Wujing doesn’t hear Wukong say “oh” because by then, the monkey’s eyes have slipped shut once more. He’s limp in the Tang priest’s lap and deaf to whatever it is the Master’s saying. And all Wujing can do is watch and wait.

* * *

And he does not want to anymore.

* * *

“We’re out of bandages, brother monkey,” Bajie grumbles to Wukong’s ear, “so if you had any shred of compassion for me, you’d stop bleeding.”

Bailong whinnies, as if telling the pig to keep quiet. Atop his saddle, Wukong sits hunched in the Tang priest’s grip, weighed down with fever and the blanket around his shoulder. Wujing stays close to the horse, hoping that should any demons come their way, his size alone would perhaps be enough to scare them off.

“Wuneng, leave Wukong be,” Sanzang says, defeated.

“Yes, leave me be, you idiot,” Wukong mutters. “And if you’re so worried about bandages… I’ll… just conjure up new ones- watch.”

He clumsily plucks a hair out. Wukong whispers ‘change’ and Wujing watches as the hair does nothing but float to the earth they trample right over.

“Never mind that,” the monkey says, evidently too tired to feel any blow to his pride.

Bajie opens his mouth, but a look from Wujing tells him to keep the comment to himself. And in silence, the pilgrims pass the rest of their morning, until a little past noon, when the monkey tugs on Sanzang’s arm and says, “I need to pee.”

“Wujing, help him down.”

Wukong slips off himself, hissing on all fours. He glares at Wujing’s feet. “I can go myself. Wouldn’t want to piss all over your blue face.”

“Now, now,” Bajie says, sauntering up to Wukong’s crawl, “that’s not very fair, eldest brother. What if we need to piss too? You wouldn’t be cruel enough to make us hold, would you?”

“Yes, I do need to relieve myself,” Wujing says, pointing a thumb at his bladder, “I’ll have to accompany you anyway, eldest brother.”

“And Old Sha’s size?” Bajie adds, “look at him. He can’t just do it anywhere or some poor little animal might drown in all his waste.”

“All of you!” Sanzang snaps, “stop talking about urine and just go already! You disgust your Master!”

“Of course, Master,” the third disciple says.

Wujing bows, and ignoring the monkey’s angry screech, picks Wukong up by the scruff of his neck. Bajie falls in stride as the three enter the woods ahead. And from the corner of his eye, Wujing sees the Master shake his head, that holy temper still simmering as they walk off.

“You got me into trouble again, idiot,” Wukong seethes at Bajie, “you’re such an eyesore.”

“Please, eldest brother,” Wujing tells him, “just relieve yourself so we can return.”

Wukong turns to the closest tree and picks himself up on the legs. Bajie does the same a shrub away, and just as Wujing stands over his own bush, he hears the pig cry out. The third disciple pulls up his pants and whips around, only to see Wukong holding that tree for balance, laughing so hard he might as well have coughed.

“He pissed on me!” Bajie screams, rapidly shaking one wet foot, “for an injured person, he’s awfully wicked! Does this please you, damned monkey!?”

“You should have seen your face,” Wukong wheezes, “so handsome.”

And then the monkey’s grin drops. His fingers dig into bark, twisting bits of wood off.

“Hurt yourself again, eh?” the pig says, “serves your right for that stupid prank. What did you think-”

“Shut up, idiot.” Wukong looks up, head craning beyond one shoulder. “I hear…”

And eyes wide, the monkey pushes himself off the tree, again dropping on hands and feet. Tail raised, he scampers off, half limping, half dashing, and still far too fast for Wujing to follow. But the third disciple takes chase anyway, this time dragging Bajie by the back of his robes.

When they again step out of the woods, Wujing’s met with the sight of a dozen or so raggedy men kowtowing at Wukong’s feet, the monkey propped up by his staff. There’s blood on each of their heads, and under those swollen features, Wujing makes out what looks like tears. Only a moment or so have passed, no more, no less, and the third disciple can only assume this flock of bandits was subdued in those few seconds.

“Forgive us, sage, forgive us,” one man begs.

Wukong nudges his shoulder with a monkey’s foot. _“Sage?”_

“Great sage! Forgive us, great sage! Spare us and we’ll not return!”

“And what else?”

“We’ll leave your Master be!”

“And?”

“We’ll shave our heads and repent for our wicked ways!”

“Good. Make sure you do or Grandpa Sun’s coming to skin you all alive. I’m very true to my word.”

Wujing’s so caught up in the sight that he doesn’t notice where the Master lays until Bailong’s neigh catches his ear. Friar Sand looks down, over where Wukong stands, and sees the horse nuzzling Sanzang, pale and trembling from head to toe, no doubt shaken by the bandits’ threats. When the men finish professing their eternal loyalty to the Great Sage, they take their leave, stopping to kowtow at Sanzang one by one.

And when he’s sure the last of them has gone, Wukong yawns and shrinks his cudgel. He grins at Sanzang. “Calm down, old man. Old Sun wouldn’t let anything happen to you. They’re the ones who should be wetting themselves.”

Sanzang nods. “Stop laughing, Wukong. I fell off the horse. It’s embarrassing enough as it is.”

“I don’t think it’s possible for you to be embarrassed, Master.”

“Wicked ape!”

Wukong chuckles and slowly falling to his knuckles, crawls to the Tang priest’s side. He moves to help the monk up, the second and third disciples following suit. The blanket slips from the monkey’s shoulders. And Wujing holds Wukong back before he collapses onto the Master’s lap.

“Wukong!” Sanzang cries, abrupt.

And Wujing flips Wukong around as Sanzang says, “You’re hurt-”

The monkey’s limp again, two straight gashes against his chest, pressed in flesh and matted with blood anew.

“Are you doing this to spite us!?” Bajie yells.

Wukong wiggles in Wujing’s iron hold, struggling to cover up those wounds with one stiff hand. As if failing to see the pointlessness of his task, Wukong scoffs and says, “Maybe there was a sword. I’m not sure…”

“Eldest brother, how?” Wujing asks, “they’re mortal. _Human_. I-”

“Ah, Old Sha. I don’t know. I’m a little slow today.”

Wukong points at his bandaged side, stained pink- “Maybe it’s this”- and he smiles, light-headed and lost. “Or maybe I’m just a monkey after all.”

Wujing stays squatting, the first disciple again passed out in his arms. And unable to process the words of the others, Friar Sand shudders, the image of that scratched chest now burned into his mind’s eye.

* * *

And he halts.

* * *

Wukong sleeps throughout the rest of the day, and well into night. There are no more bandages so they shred parts of Sanzang’s cassock and again bind the monkey’s wounds, as if patching a ripped doll back together. Wukong is warm to the touch, and there’s nothing Wujing can quite do for eldest brother save wipe his face with water-wrung rags.

Wujing wonders if the dread would weigh less if Wukong at least moans. But the first disciple does not. He’s as quiet as a corpse, only body heat and breath hinting that he lives. It’s a dumb notion, Wujing supposes, because Wukong is immortal. Or at least they believe he is. Unless Wukong lied about that as well.

And then, Wujing wonders- as Sanzang rocks the monkey in his arms- if maybe Wukong cannot die anyway. Is it better then, to leave their eldest brother suffering for eternity.

Bailong spends the night nuzzling Wukong’s oblivious crown, and Bajie, replacing bloodied rags with more ripped cloth, still slips little insults the monkey’s way, trying and failing to get a rise from deaf ears. And Wujing just thinks, thinks back to Wukong’s own words; he’s still strong enough to hold his own, but Wujing knows it’s not for long. That ego would never allow Wukong to admit it. Even calling himself slow is something the first disciple would never do. But he has. And so, Wujing knows, just how weakened the monkey really is.

Those new wounds are a consequence of such weakness, or perhaps a warning- Wujing doesn’t know which and is too tired to ponder more. Which came first of what from what. But he does know this- the pig’s snout is right and infection has set in, taking a good chunk of Wukong’s torso with it. And all of this, he knows they can’t tell the Tang priest.

But the Master is not so dumb.

* * *

And neither is he.

* * *

When the monkey wakes up, too weak to lift his head, he asks for Bajie first. He’s propped against the horse’s torso, head buried in a part of Bailong’s mane. Sanzang sits, less than an inch away, rummaging with Wukong’s blanket and asking words of well-being.

Wujing, too large to come nearer, stays a foot across. Bajie appears just as Wukong opens one eye, weakly mumbling, “Bajie, come closer.”

“What is it, monkey?” the pig asks, brow furrowed in deep concern.

“Bajie.” The voice drops to a whisper. “Please.”

Wuneng crawls forward, until he’s a breadth away. And clicking his teeth, Wukong says, “You’re ugly.”

Ears raised, Bajie falls back and cries, “Master, did you see that!? He’s such a bully!”

Wukong delivers a peal of laughs, so low they’re almost gasps. Sanzang steadies him, and relieved, says, “Wukong, that was unnecessary. Wuneng was concerned.”

“Bah. You’re always taking his side.”

“You’re a real nasty villain,” Bajie says, faking his sniffles.

Wukong grins, eyes dull, and it seems to Wujing, that at least for the night, they’ve returned to the way they were.

* * *

He’s wrong.

* * *

Wujing sleeps soundly, seduced by a lullaby of crickets and owls of dusk. Bajie’s snores blend with the last crackles of fire, and in that peace, Wujing rests. Until he hears the sound of Wukong’s low words.

“Master, come dawn, leave me behind. I’m no use to you now.”

“Shut up, you base macaque,” Sanzang says, hushed, “we’re not leaving you.”

“Old Sun’s happy you care, believe me… but you have to, Master. I’ll find a way to catch up.”

“You can’t even move. How?”

“I always find a way. You can’t stop to tend to me every night. And I can’t fight these things off forever. I’m sorry, Master.”

“Wukong-”

“You know I’m right, old man. The road west won’t travel itself. Wujing will take care of you. Bajie’s an idiot, but he’s not so bad at fighting. And Bailong-”

“Wukong, stop speaking of these terrible things! It’s not funny!”

There’s a cracked chuckle, no doubt croaked from the monkey’s tired throat. “And don’t lose that sense of humor without me, eh.”

Sanzang berates Wukong into the night, and Wujing flips on his massive side, suddenly threatened awake.

* * *

And he stays awake.

* * *

Wukong does not wake up the next day. Or the next.

“Master, this is bad,” Wujing says, “eldest brother’s small enough as it is. He can’t have much blood left to shed.”

“Small,” Bajie says with a snicker, glancing the monkey’s way, as if hoping that snide little comment would rouse him up.

Wukong sleeps soundly through the rise and fall of sun, not a bump to his breath as the saddle bobs with Bailong’s back. At night, the fire tinges his pallid skin a sort of pink. But the orange does not touch his fur. When Wujing looks upon their silent brother, all he sees is grey over grey, and spots of red from where his blood spills.

* * *

And spills.

* * *

They start tearing off skirts and sleeves to dress the monkey’s wounds. Sanzang has stopped trying to scold Wukong awake. But Bajie still mutters flat jeers into his ears. Wujing knows the first disciple cannot hear, not anymore. In daylight, Sanzang holds the first disciple close, tender in his touch. And so, Bailong walks, carrying the weight of the Master and one. Come nightfall, Sanzang rests with Wukong in his lap, quietly weeping as he caresses that small head.

“I’ll read the head mantra,” he says, low, “Wukong, I’ll do it if you don’t stop with this nasty prank.”

But he doesn’t.

And when Wukong bleeds again, Sanzang slips out of his cassock and hands the fabric to Wujing. The third disciple cuts it up- shreds each piece of the Master’s beloved cloth- and Bajie wraps them around their fallen brother.

“If this is payback for all the things I’ve done to you,” he tells Wukong, “then you’re a real petty creature, monkey. Old Zhu won’t insult your name anymore, alright? Even if you deserve it. So whatever it is you’re doing, stop it. You won.”

“He can’t hear you, second brother,” Wujing says, looking on.

“Shut up, Old Sha!”

* * *

Until he thinks, enough.

* * *

Wukong lies across the horse’s saddle, just petite enough to fit in the space of its width. And eyes trained on the sunlit road ahead, Bailong travels on. Behind him, Wujing trudges, a nervous Sanzang held tight atop the friar’s shoulder. Wujing secures the Tang priest with one arm and their pails with the other.

Bajie and Bailong are left to pull the rest of their weight, luggage that now includes the first disciple.

“There’s a house ahead, Master!” Bajie says.

Sanzang squints. “It seems you’re right, Wuneng. Let’s see if they have alms to spare.”

Wujing looks to where Bajie points. And sure enough, an old hut sits, built with wood and stone and dashes of straw. A small well stands beside it, and Wujing can’t help but wonder if a house in the middle of the woods is one to trust. He makes sure to say so.

“Wujing has a point,” Sanzang says, frowning, “and we can’t use your elder brother’s eyes for this.”

“If it’s a demon trap, eldest brother won’t stand a chance like this. And neither will you, Master,” Wujing surmises.

“Don’t be so candid, Old Sha,” Bajie huffs, “monkey needs shelter. Look at him- he needs fresh gauze, clean water, how long’s it been since any of us have eaten?”

“Wuneng has a point too,” the Master agrees, evidently lost.

Wujing turns to the dragon horse. “What say you, Xiao Bailong?”

Bailong’s ears prick, flicking here and there as the horse stands and waits, as if thinking of which sense to trust. He releases a low whinny. And clops on.

“That’s three to one, little brother,” Bajie says, smug.

Wujing scowls, but he goes along. The pilgrims follow the horse’s lead until they reach the brittle door of the hut ahead. Wujing sets Sanzang down and the Master knocks once, then twice, and again and again until he’s sure there is no one home.

“Then let us wait until the master returns,” the priest says.

“No time, Master. Might as well see inside.” Before Sanzang can berate him, Bajie pushes the door open and pokes his head in. He gestures for the pilgrims to follow and all save Bailong file in- Wujing takes Wukong into his arms and hunches to fit through.

It’s a dusty home, near emptied out save a few chipped bowls and hats strewn about. There’s a bed, too small to fit more than one, but just enough for Sanzang to place Wukong on its length. At its foot, the Master sits.

“I think this abode is abandoned,” he guesses.

“I hope so, Master,” Wujing says, “we won’t find any alms here, but it should be shelter from the cold for one night. And there is a well outside.”

“Alright. I’ll settle in here. Wujing, Wuneng, go check that well. See if you can bring anything for Wukong.”

The disciples bow and show themselves out, Wujing especially grateful for the chance to again stretch his limbs, knowing full well that he alone took up half that hut. Outside, Bajie tethers the horse. As he checks the well over, Wujing walks over and says, “Second brother-”

Bajie near falls in. “Damn it, Old Sha! Don’t sneak up on me like that. What do you want?”

“I have a plan, but I need your help.”

“You? A plan? You’re the most useless of our lot. Eldest brother’s the one who does these plans.”

“Do you have a better idea, second brother? If I didn’t respect you so much, I could push you into this well.”

Bajie tilts his head and spits on the ground. Looking up, he asks sharply, “Then what do you want me to do? Whatever this is, it better be good, Old Sha.”

“Go seek out the nearest temple to the Bodhisattva Guanyin. Plead for help on your younger brother’s behalf. Tell her I’ve been injured and you don’t wish me to slow the journey down nor do you wish to leave me behind.”

“How is this _your_ plan!? I told you days ago we should find Guanyin! You told me not to, you said the whole world would know that monkey’s hurt!”

Wujing shushes Bajie, such aggression in the noise that pig freezes up.

“And that’s why we’re not doing it, second brother. Go find the Bodhisattva. I’m going to look for food in the forest. Alone. And some tragedy may befall me there. Which is why you need something to heal me fast.”

“But you’re fine, Old Sha. We can’t lie to the Bodhisattva.”

“We’re not going to lie to her.”

Bajie thinks it over. Then he says, “ah.”

Some feet behind them, Bailong neighs. Wujing walks over and strokes the horse’s mane. “When we leave, Xiao Bailong, take your man-shape. And guard Master from within.”

* * *

And he says, enough.

* * *

Wujing brings the spade upon his leg.

This is nothing. He’s been injured before, endured sufferings day in and day out in the River Sha. He still remembers heaven’s whip upon his back, the scars so deep they remain on the cords of his spine.

The blade digs in, past tendon and bone until his limb near bursts. And in a broken sweat, Wujing howls.

Then he waits.

* * *

And it’s enough.

* * *

“You really went through with it, Old Sha? And they call me the idiot!”

Wujing wakes to Bajie’s blurred shape, the pig looking at him with a mix of mild concern and confused fascination. The third disciple grunts, then hisses, when the pain pulls at his leg. Bajie helps him sit up, almost crushed by the weight of Wujing’s arm.

“Hold on there, little brother,” the pig says, “your terrible plan worked. The Bodhisattva gave me this-”

From his belt, he pulls out a translucent sack of pinkish pills, perfectly round and textured like leaves.

“Just take a few-”

“No! Go back to the hut. Get these to eldest brother.”

“But-”

“Go!”

Wujing shoves Bajie away and falls back wincing. The pig sighs. “Your call. But don’t worry. Old Zhu’s coming right back-”

“Second brother, now!”

And Bajie is gone.

* * *

So is he.

* * *

When Wujing wakes again, there’s a light in his eyes. He rubs his vision clear, nose bumping with the fabric of white silk, itself smelling of lotus and willow.

“Friar Sand,” a voice says.

And he stares, gaping, at the Bodhisattva’s kindly face, half shrouded behind her floating veil. She’s so close he can barely see anything save the light of her spirit, as unfiltered and ethereal as he remembered.

“Bodhisattva,” he mutters, and struggling to move, tries to kowtow.

She stays him with her hand.

“You and Marshal Tianpeng tried to deceive me, however roundabout it was.”

He bows his head in shame.

“But I’ll let it slide this one time. You lot seem to always be in trouble one way or another. And to sacrifice yourself for your elder brother, a very noble thing to do.”

The Bodhisattva waves her willow, and when Wujing looks up, again into her light, he knows the pain has gone, that leg healed to however it was.

“Does anyone else know?” Wujing asks, “about eldest brother?”

Guanyin shakes her head. “It was a secret well-kept. Now, isn’t there something you want to say to me?”

Wujing falls blank. Then, blushing, it dawns on him. “Oh! Forgive me. Thank you, kind Bodhisattva, for saving us yet again.”

“I might as well be the sixth pilgrim at this point,” she says, a laugh on her tongue.

And his leg repaired, Wujing manages to gather himself and finally kowtow.

* * *

And all is well.

* * *

Wujing burst through the door, taking bits and pieces of hut with him. Bumping his head against the ceiling, the third disciple arches, entering on his knees.

“Wujing!” Sanzang says, at once elated and shocked, “look!”

The Tang priest rests by the edge of the bed, Bailong on the other side, and Bajie kneeling at its foot. Wukong is sitting up, leg on Bajie’s shoulder and the Master’s hand in his own. There’s a weariness about him, the look of one who hasn’t slept well in days, and a bit of pain in his features. But the makeshift bandages sit dry, and a golden glow has returned to his sickly fur. Even his skin has regained a trace of red.

“Old Sha,” the monkey greets, his voice a cracked rasp. He grins, cocking that head. “Come here.”

Wujing does, not caring if he almost takes the roof down in his scuttle. Wukong slips his hand from Sanzang’s grip. And both palms held to the third disciple’s head, Wukong puts his own brow against Wujing’s nose, much like a monkey hugging a tree.

Wukong is earthly warm, not deathly hot, and in his embrace, Wujing can’t help but let the tears freely fall.

“Eldest brother,” he gasps.

“I’m here,” Wukong says, eyes again shut, a painless smile upon his lips, as if saying _I know it was you, Old Sha. Thank you._

“Don’t cry, little brother!” Bajie snaps mid-sniffle, “we’ve been trying not to embarrass ourselves.”

“I thought we couldn’t be embarrassed,” Sanzang retorts, rubbing his eyes with a wet sleeve.

But Xiao Bailong is the one who sobs loudest of all, and Wujing supposes it’s better than hearing a high whinny.

* * *

All is well, he knows.

* * *

Spring is in full bloom when they again take to the road. Sanzang sits, chin high, on Bailong’s saddle, Wukong pulling at the reins ahead, spine arched just enough to allow his feet to walk on two. And on either side, Bajie and Wujing follow with spade and rake.

“How are you feeling, Wukong?” the monk asks.

The first disciple laughs, a little grating. “You’ve asked me that three times already, old man. Grandpa’s fine as can be. But it does tickle me to know you care so much, Master.”

“You should stop asking him that, Master,” Bajie says, “it’s getting to his head. Now Old Monkey thinks he’s the center of the universe.”

“You cried for me, idiot,” Wujing remarks, “I’m already the center of your universe.”

“I did _not_ cry for you!”

“Holy men can’t lie!”

“Master, he’s putting words in my mouth!”

“You put words in your own mouth, idiot!”

Wujing wonders if it’s a trick of the eye, because he sees Bailong roll his eyes. He adjusts his spade and doesn’t bother holding back a chortle in his throat.

“Yes, I see that you’re both in good health,” the Tang priest says, nonchalant to the argument around.

“Should we stop here, Master?” Wujing asks.

“No, let’s travel for a while longer.”

Wujing nods and the monk smiles back. As Wukong and Bajie bicker, the road stretches on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All's well that ends well. Thanks for reading and hope that was worth your time! Feel free to leave kudos/comments and thank you again to everyone that's given me their support!
> 
> Note: In the first concept, Wujing was the one who went to find Guanyin instead of Bajie but I think it works better this way and doesn't leave Sanzang unattended for too long. Also, there was a lot of misplaced angst from Wukong as he went "wow I can't believe they actually care about me, maybe I should be less of a jerk" but I found that ooc- he busts his ass for the group on a daily basis and he knows haha. 
> 
> Now it's back to my other WIPs!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and comments/kudos are appreciated! Hope that was worth your time!
> 
> For everyone who's following From Here the Rain Falls, I hope it doesn't feel too repetitive to you (but I know some parts are inevitable, since Rain was based on what was this fic), and I know that what happened to Wukong is literally *nothing* compared to what he went through in that fic haha. But at the time I thought of this, it felt like a big deal. I mostly wrote this as a small exercise/break from that story.
> 
> Next chapter ends everything and there's more focus on this version of Bailong!


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